5:02pm

I look at my hands half covered with knitted long sleeves. Red. The room is covered with white drapes that makes the afternoon such a warm, reddish-orange. It’s such an undeniable loving warmth. It reminded me of you.

I miss you. I miss you more than I’ll ever let you know. But often I’m more disillusioned by my own ghosts when I’m with you, and I fail to really tell you how much I try to maximize. That when I come to you or when I make you stay, it’s an extension of my day dreaming of my making you a reality. You’d always be busy. You’d always be fast paced. And I’ll always be the one who’d keep on wishing for more time.

And I’d always insist that you’re not giving enough time. But really, I just can’t get enough of you. A want that would never be satiated; a wish that will never fully be fulfilled. It’s the interesting transcendence of irony, of missing you still even when you’re with me.

I miss you again, today, but not really. I miss you terribly, but not really. I miss you big time, but truthfully, no, not really. Because I’ll always keep using words that would seem close to what I mean, but you’ll never really understand the enormity of what I meant.

I miss you. But not really. Because I miss you much more than that.